Sunday, October 03, 2010

Proper 22

Luke 17
5The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” 6The Lord replied, “If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you. 7“Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here at once and take your place at the table’? 8Would you not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink’? 9Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? 10So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!’”


“If you had faith the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.”

How often, I wonder, did the disciples say “Lord, we don’t know what on earth your talking about.” How often did they push Peter to the front to say “We’ve been chewing on the last thing you said since Bethsaida and we’ve got nothing.” Or maybe, “Lord, can you say everything again after ‘now listen carefully.’”

There are some who have suggested that the lost years of Jesus were spent travelling, experiencing the world. Maybe he went to England like the anthem suggests. Maybe he went to India to learn about the Buddha and the Noble Path of Suffering. Or maybe he met a culture in some faraway place that taught profound things that never seem clear. Today’s passage is a report from just such a place.

There are plenty of sermons that take the first verse of our reading for today (The apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!”) and end there. The simple phrase “Increase my faith!” suggests all sorts of directions, various approaches and ideas, all unrelated to mulberry trees in the sea and the proper place of slaves in the ancient near-east.

And why wouldn’t we travel down that path? Who wouldn’t lobby for more faith, in a world beset by trouble, where everyday brings new uncertainty and a greater sense of danger. You need something to manage in a world of increased threat levels and pandemic preparedness, financial meltdown and voter anger. We need a rock to cling to, something to sustain us, and the simple plea “Increase our faith” maybe enough topic for any day.

Or, maybe this is one of those moments, not unlike the day James and John wanted all the glory, that Jesus might say, “do you understand what you are asking?” Luke doesn’t record such a question, but it seems implied: The twelve have asked for something that may be absurd, and they get an absurd response. Maybe the demand for an increase in faith is an absurd as a tree planted in the sea. Or maybe the smallest faith possible (the mustard seed) is more than enough to uproot trees and grow them in the sea? In that case, asking for more is just foolish.

So the intuitive response is “sure, I could use more faith, who couldn’t.” And the Lord’s respond is “since when did faith come in sizes?” Could this be the answer to the puzzle of the mulberry tree? Even mustard seed faith is sufficient, and asking for more is as foolish as wanting to sit at the right and left hands of Jesus in glory. That might be the right answer, but going back to living in the day to day, it sure feels that having more faith would be handy almost any day of the week.

"Take heart, daughter," he said, "your faith has healed you."
"Your faith has saved you; go in peace."
"Go," said Jesus, "your faith has healed you."
"Rise and go; your faith has made you well."
"Receive your sight; your faith has healed you."


Time and time again, Jesus reminds people that there is faith enough to heal and to save, to overcome even death. A parade of broken and damaged people seek him out, some with disease, some advocating for others, each receiving healing and wholeness because they had faith enough to make it so.

And apostles said to the Lord, “Increase our faith!” and maybe, just maybe, the answer could have been, “I will.” The answer could have been “yes, you’ll certainly need it when I’m gone,” or “just a little more, because you can never have enough.” Instead, it wasn’t quite ‘no,’ but it wasn’t ‘yes’ either.

Then a parable, an uncommon one, one you don’t hear much, because it falls poorly on modern ears. “Who among you,” he begins, “would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here at once and take your place at the table’?” Wouldn’t you be more likely to say “have you forgot my supper?” And should a slave receive thanks? Then Jesus speaks directly to the twelve: “So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!’”

If Jesus was in a bad mood that day, maybe Luke should have turned the recorder off. Maybe we don’t need to hear the result of a long day on the road, the impertinence of the twelve, the constant demands. Once again, like the mulberry tree, there is meaning here, and we are called to set aside the mood and the uncomfortable framing and find meaning.

Jesus used slave metaphors because they were commonly understood and apropos to the topic of faith. Slave or servant, there was (and is) an assumption that faith has something to do with obedience, and we are required to figure out what it is. And here we venture into completely counter-cultural terrain: If conversation about faith is rare, conversation about faith as obedience is practically dodo in scope.

Hard work is it’s own reward.
Virtue is it’s own reward.
Generosity is it’s own reward.


There seems to more than a few variations on this idea, and with a little help from Google, “virtue is it’s own reward” may be the original, likely by Spenser in the Faerie Queene. Crazy Elizabethans. It’s one of those phrases that makes no sense to lots of people, and maybe that’s the point. Cake mix or scratch? Hire or do it yourself? Walk or drive? Just as there seems to be a reward for doing things the hard way, there is a reward for just doing your job.

So if the job description of a disciple is “have faith,” then they should feel content and say “we have done only what we ought to have done!” We have faith, why ask for more. We did our job, and it was hard work, and surely there is virtue in that. And there is. It would be absurd to demand more, because a little is all you need. ‘Do your job,’ Jesus says, meaning ‘have faith,’ and that is all I require.

"Your faith has saved you; go in peace."
"Go," said Jesus, "your faith has healed you."
"Rise and go; your faith has made you well."


A woman with a hemorrhage, a despondent father, a man born blind: these people seem like spiritual giants in the land, brave enough to approach Jesus, shout at Jesus, follow in behind, even demand healing, and we should be content with our faith? We should accept what little faith we have when these faithful ones received so much?

Yes and no. We should never accept what little faith we have, because faith requires nurture, and prayer, some study, and the support of others. We can challenge ourselves to have more, and some may even get it, but at the end of the day God is the source of faith. We need it, God provides.

The difference between the disciples anxious for more faith and the broken few who had faith is surrender. The twelve thought faith was something you acquire, something you bank, rather the absence of something, which the others understood. Faith is a giving away of the need to have more, and faith is the openness to accept that God has all the faith we could ever need. It is surrender to that idea, obedience to that idea, that is at the heart of faith.

Jesus said having more faith is absurd, maybe you need less. Jesus said, be content as worthless servants, because your worthlessness, your absence abundant faith is all the faith you need if you place your trust in God alone.

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